Rather, Mrs. York bounced across the threshold, while Philippa floated into the sitting room in a sugary cloud of gauze and lace. The white lace trimming the base of the skirt billowed and fluttered, allowing brief glimpses of the toes of Philippa’s pink slippers.

She looked good enough to eat. Tommy’s heart thudded violently behind its protective layers of cambric and waistcoat and lapels.

“Mrs. York. Miss York.” She made her most extravagant bow.

Mrs. York gave a false, high-pitched titter.

Philippa did not change her expression, but her blue eyes shone as they met Tommy’s.

“I brought you something,” Tommy said.

The corners of Philippa’s mouth quirked. “Is it a painting of trolls?”

“Imps,” Tommy corrected. “And I would never part with that.”

“Oh.” Mrs. York waved her hands. “Must we recall the horrid ‘art’ the Duke of Faircliffe gave to Philippa? Baron Vanderbean, what have you brought? Oh, a lily! Philippa appreciates your gesture, which I think we can all agree is more romantic than anything the Duke of Faircliffe has ever done. A pretty flower is all that is proper. Here, give it to me. I’ll ring for a vase at once.”

Giving the delicate lily to Mrs. York was significantly less romantic than handing it to her daughter, but Tommy did as instructed.

Philippa appeared neither impressed with the gift nor disappointed that she was apparently not to touch it. Her eyes were not on the tender lily, but on Tommy, taking in every carefully dressed inch, from her freshly shined shoes all the way up to her painstakingly curled locks.

It was not a sexual perusal, Tommy reminded herself firmly. No matter how it felt.

Now that Philippa knew the truth, she was simply curious how the trick was done. Thinking was Philippa’s favorite activity. Her clever brain must be whirring madly beneath the deceptively staid golden ringlets, as she calculated and analyzed and developed her theories.

Nonetheless, Tommy’s body registered the slow sweep of Philippa’s gaze as though it were the caress of a lover’s hand.

Ankles and calves hidden inside carefully shined boots. The fit of her breeches and the muscles of her thighs. Her midsection further accented by the smart cut of her tailcoat and waistcoat. The frantic pulse at the base of her throat, hidden beneath the starched fall of a carefully folded cravat.

Tommy would be more than happy to spoil the magic and take off every stitch of clothing if Philippa agreed to do the same. It was not a wish that could come true, but Tommy’s brain did not work in the same logical manner as Philippa’s.

A Wynchester never let a thing like “impossibility” get in the way of a good dream.